


The End Of Days

by Pale Rider (Boothros)



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:09:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21491851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boothros/pseuds/Pale%20Rider
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	The End Of Days

1963

Ray Doyle was the last one left in the steamed-up café just before midnight. When the pubs had chucked out, many of his number were still too high to call it a night, but even the most hardened of party-goers had finally given in, leaving Doyle alone for the very last time. Everyone he knew was either going on to further education, a decent apprenticeship or for the most gifted, lucrative positions in art and design. Not so the bright lights for Raymond Doyle. Lacking the real talent needed to put his education to use, he’d finally run out of funds and been forced to sign his life away to a _proper_ job. Knowing he’d never see any of his student friends again, Doyle looked with dismay toward the following Monday. Only a short, dull weekend marked the end of his freedom before he officially became probationer Constable Doyle. He looked into the cooling contents of his mug with despair.

Four thousand miles away, William Bodie was the last one who stared into the embers of a dying fire. Bodie hated night watch. Responsible for a body of men he cared about though thoroughly disliked, he was constantly on the alert for the hidden perils of the dark. He supposed he was reasonably wealthy for a man of his age, if nothing else, the job paid well. He’d miss some things about it of course. The shimmering mirage of a Congo dawn, the tempting glint in a young girl's eye, the lawlessness that allowed him to take and play and earn as much as he dared to. But Bodie knew when he was done. He’d been on the run from his life since the age of twelve. The mercenary route might hold untold kudos and riches for those that survived it, but Bodie knew he rode on a knife-edge for all of its journey. The promise of the plane to carry him out of Africa depended on a whole lot of lies and a few well-placed blow jobs, but as far as he knew, within the next week, he should become a paid-up member of The British Armed Forces. Unsure of his feelings, Bodie spat into the fire.

1976

Ray Doyle could have spat upon the report he was trying to type out. It had been a great bust admittedly. His department would probably go down in history for the charley they’d collared and the faces behind it. What sat so ill with him was lying the Met out of the abuse of the Molls, the sexual assaults on the wives and girlfriend’s who truly believed that by opening their legs to the coppers involved, their men might be left alone. Doyle had met a few of the girls. Some, of course, were old hands who hated the police as much as he had started to. Others were youngsters who’d put blind faith in their fellas, only to face the ugly truth once against the strong arm of the so-called law. Sick of the whole, corrupt bloody thing, DS Doyle wondered that if he just buggered off for a pint, anyone would actually notice.

Three hundred miles away, the chosen scapegoat, Captain William Bodie, faced his superior officer. Two rookies who’d barely scraped through basic training were dead on his watch. He knew their blood was on his hands even though there was nothing in his power that could have changed the situation. He was being pushed out because somebody didn’t like him. If he couldn’t figure out who that person was, Mister Cowley’s offer was the only one on the table that would save him from certain shame and poverty.

1982

‘It’s always us, isn’t it?’

From three feet away, the affirmative nod could be felt. Supposedly employed for their intelligence and experience, Bodie and Doyle were often as uninformed within CI5’s squad car as they’d been in the womb. Two men who were all too used to facing the injustices life threw at them were becoming two halves of a whole, enclosed within their own mobile ghetto, a steel forcefield against an unforgiving world. Whatever the outcome of events if they managed to survive them, they’d end the days with a quiet beer or peaceful meal.

2002

“Who’s turn is it?”

“Yours.”

“You _always_ say that though!”

“No, it really _is_ your turn!”

Bodie could moan and gripe at the voice from the other side of the bed until hell froze over, but he knew full well _he’d_ still be the one freezing his toes off whilst brewing the tea. He smiled to himself knowing there were far worse things he could be worried about.

From his cocoon of warmth, Doyle smiled too. He knew he’d repay Bodie’s small kindness a hundredfold before the end of their day and was only too pleased to be able to do so. Life might be as shit as everyone said it was, but sometimes, just _sometimes_, it was really, rather good.


End file.
